Turbare
by RubyTuesday13
Summary: Semi-sequel to It All Comes Out in the Wash, Anyway. Obvious CrusoexFriday pre-slash overtones. Friday catches something he does not expect, in the treehouse, one night.


_A/N: Here's a little more something more on these two. Give me a yell if you think I should knock the rating up-- I oddly have no radar for deciding on a rating._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the series, which should be obvious from the way it was canceled without even resolving the very easily resolvable storyline. Please don't sue me for infringing on copyright law, or being passive-aggressive._

At first, they manage not speak of it, the morning after Friday catches Crusoe with his hand down his pants in the dark.

At the time, Friday thought the noise he heard was some sort of predator. Torchlight revealed something quite other. Crusoe's hips were arching off the bed, he was so fixated on what he was doing.

And when the full details of the situation became obvious, there was... an awkwardness.

"Mngh," said Crusoe, managing to remove his hand just in time for it to be painfully clear where it had been, of late. He sat up, folding over himself.

A moment passed, where Crusoe sat there, befuddled and noticeably undressed, and Friday stood, looking much the same. The latter of which being probably the most depraved thing Crusoe _could_ notice at that particular moment. The thought extrapolated for much longer than it should have, and Crusoe looked staunchly _away_.

Friday coughed, once, then twice, then decided to put the torch out and go find the other side of the treehouse in the dark. Crusoe cringed when there was a clatter, a moment later, and some hissing Crusoe thought he recognized as belonging to Friday's language.

The rest of the night passed without incident.

In the daylight, they go about their chores, and do not speak at all, in fact. Crusoe idly wonders if such things are taboo in Friday's culture.

Like they are in Crusoe's...

They pass one another, Friday going for the oranges, Crusoe for the drinking water. This plan fails, as they attempt too hard to avoid one another, and end up crabwalking awkwardly, until Crusoe puts his hands down and says, gracefully:

"Look, a man.. A man has needs. Natural.. urges, and..." he rubs his forehead, and wonders why he has to explain this, because Friday is clearly also a man, whatever land he might be from.

Friday's eyes widen, slowly, then narrow. "Are you..." he leans forward and says it more quietly, so Dundee won't hear, "Are you _propositioning_ me, Crusoe?"

"What?!" Crusoe goes back several steps, and then from foot to foot, awkwardly, never noticing Friday snickering at his expense. "No! I- I'm just _explaining_... about last night..." he waves a hand between them.

"When you were masturbating," Friday lowers his chin, all seriousness, except for in the corners of his eyes.

Crusoe squints, looking anywhere else, and lands on, "Where did you even learn that word?"

"Sailors always try to teach you profanities first," Friday explained, helpfully, "That one is probably the easiest for them to get across, actually. Most foul language does not really translate, but obscene gesture spans all cultures."

Crusoe looks anywhere else some more, grinning. "Alright, so.. why do we have to have this conversation?" he says, half to himself, rubbing his neck.

"Well.. and correct me if I'm wrong.. but I think because you are _embarrassed_, and felt the need to clear the air," Friday passes him, patting him on the shoulder.

"Alright, yes, but.." Crusoe follows. "You were being equally.." he waved a hand, "laconic, if I may say.."

"Well, the next time you catch a friend in the throes of passion with himself, you make sure to immediately brush it off like nothing happened," Friday gives him a look.

"I see what you mean," Crusoe stops, staring off and tapping a foot. For some reason he has a deep need to know that Friday does not now think less of him. "And this sort of behavior is.. common, acceptable? In your tribe?" He is professional, this is purely the interest of the naturalist.

"A man without outlet for his seed must spill it, obviously. Though it sounds an awful lot like this is_ not _the practice in England, which leads me to wonder how it has not yet sunk into the sea."

"It's a practice, I promise, it's just not.. loudly advertised."

"You were advertising it loudly enough last night," Friday observes, casually, working orange out of its peel with his teeth. It mostly covers his grin.

"You know, it turns out I _can't _talk to you about this," Crusoe stomps off, blushing brightly.

Friday finally breaks into a laugh, "Not even if I make you breakfast?"

"Not hungry," Crusoe calls back, curtly, halfway to the ground already.

He hears Friday laugh again and say something with a teasing sort of tone to Dundee in his own language. The only part he catches is some variant of the word Friday had often used for the tension of support ropes, back when they were building the treehouse. He purses his lips and makes a goal of learning more of Friday's language. With all his free time.

Free time, it could get to a man.


End file.
